


The Child is Father to the Man

by chains_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Boys in Chains, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 02:44:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3674475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chains_archivist/pseuds/chains_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Noirceur</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Child is Father to the Man

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Dusk, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Boys in Chains](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Boys_in_Chains), which opened in 2000 as a multifandom archive for both fiction and art, but then sadly went offline in 2005. To bring the archive back, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in December 2014. Open Doors [posted an announcement](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/1832) and e-mailed all creators about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please [contact the Open Doors committee](http://transformativeworks.org/contact/open%20doors).

He was very careful opening the door to the apartment at the top of the now empty house. He knew the hinges would have been oiled so that they made no sound, so that one of the residents could be taken by surprise. Still, he was very careful. The other resident had a long history of not being taken unaware.

He kept his silenced weapon close to the side of his face, ready to fire as soon as his eye caught sight of his prey. He had no intention of allowing the other to speak, to do anything that might, even for a nanosecond, distract him from his avowed killing.

Now he was in the hallway, down closer to the entrance of the living room. There was a light on in the room, a lamp that would be highlighting the leather armchair where his mark should be sitting, reading whatever book had taken his fancy at the moment: a lamp that would be casting dark shadows in the rest of the room, shadows the reader could be using to await his entry.

He was almost surprised to find the man in the chair, almost as surprised as the man who looked up to see a weapon pointing at him. A man who had the time to recognize him before he emptied his weapon into him.

He hadn't needed to do that. He had been well trained. He knew his first shot had been fatal but his finger had stayed on the trigger until the hammer had come down on an empty clip. The force of the bullets had sent the body careening against the far wall, blood splattering everywhere.

He stood over the dead man, waited until a part of himself nodded in satisfaction.

On a table untouched by the last moments stood a bottle of vodka. Unlabelled. Specially flown in for the man who would no longer have need for the two glasses he allowed himself every evening he wasn't working. The man smiled grimly: it would do well for what he intended next.

He replaced the used-up clip, reached for the bottle with his less flexible hand and went back into the hallway, down its darkened length to a door that stood waiting at its very end.

He hesitated in front of the door. Found that it taunted him, that it required more from him than he would have thought merely to open it.

Its hinges too were very well oiled. For the same reason as the outer door. By the light from the street he could make out the bed in the middle of the room, enough to see that it had an occupant.

Without his looking, the barrel of his weapon reached over to flick up the switch of the overhead light.

The room hadn't changed. At all.

The windows were still uncovered, offering hopeless escape, a view of the top of a tree that might be used as ladder to the ground. Part of the sky which, depending on the season, showed not just the stars to wish on but also the moon to fly away to, if only in one's mind.

There was no other furniture in the room apart from the bed. A bed bolted to the floor in the middle of the small room. A room kept warm so that there was no need of bedclothes. Nothing to draw close to one, to offer some comfort, some protection.

By now the occupant of the bed knew someone was in the room. He lay very still, waiting the other's pleasure.

The man with the gun knew exactly at what point the occupant was in his training by the manacles that bound him to the bed, by the marks that covered his body, by the toys that adorned it.

He placed the bottle down on the floor and carefully, his eyes on the bed, his ears open for any sound, made his way around to the side facing the windows.

The occupant registered more surprise at the weapon than at his presence. The man gave him a moment to get used to both before he sat on the side of the bed.

The occupant was a boy, about ten or eleven in age. White blond hair. Large resigned brown eyes. Slim with the boyish gawkiness of his age. Body bracing itself for whatever was coming.

The man hesitated before reaching for the gag. "Do you understand me?"

He spoke not loudly, neutrally, watching the boy's eyes. Saw confusion, probably only partial comprehension of the language. He tried again, this time using Russian. The boy gave a slight nod. The man nodded back.

With more gentleness than most people who knew him would have given him credit for, he removed the gag, tossed it onto the floor. With his real hand he massaged the pressure points in the boy's jaw where the pain would have gathered. The boy looked surprised at the treatment.

The man moved a bit down on the bed so that he could reach the harness that bit tightly into the boy's hips. He unsnapped the studs that held it in place, left it there while he reached behind the boy. Eyes holding, he carefully removed the butt plug the belt had prevented from moving out. The boy's eyes closed, for the merest moment, in relief. The cock ring came off next and the thin leather harness joined the gag on the floor.

The man rubbed the red mark on the boy's hip bone until he felt a small sigh.

He reached over to the wall where, off a hook, at the boy's eye level, hung two keys. So very near and yet so unreachable. With one of the keys the man unlocked the manacles at the boy's ankles, manacles that were chained to the foot of the bed so that legs barely had room to move.

With a louder sigh, the boy moved his body so that his weight no longer rested on the one side. The man thoughtfully massaged that hip as well. The boy merely spread his legs apart, as he had been trained to do. And waited.

The man reached up to the head of the bed, unlocked the manacles that held the boy's arms in an awkward, never comfortable position. He let the boy slowly bring his arms down while he rubbed feeling into the muscles at his shoulders.

After a minute he spoke again. "Go put your clothes on. Wait for me there."

The perfectly trained boy obeyed. He slipped out of bed, stiffly walked out of the room, down the hallway to a door by the entrance to the living room.

The man stood up, went to pick up the bottle of vodka. It was almost pure alcohol. He sprinkled some of it on the bed, on the floor. He tucked the bottle under his arm, reached into his jacket pocket for a box of matches. He lit one. With a feral grin of satisfaction, he tossed it onto the bed. There was a "whoosh", and the mattress cover flamed. He took no chances. Lit a second match and threw it onto the puddle on the floor. He waited until he was certain that the fire had well caught and then he stepped out of the room.

The boy, now dressed in jeans, soccer shirt, running shoes stood in the entrance of the living room, eyes on the man that lay dead.

The man joined him.

The boy looked up at him. "Did you kill him?" His voice was barely curious.

"Yes."

The boy looked from the body then back to the man. "Thank you."

"My pleasure."

The man went into the room, emptied the rest of the bottle and set fire to it. The boy stood watching, unmoving.

The man joined him, reached for him. The boy gave a start then froze. He stood very still as the man removed the last of his signs of ownership, a dog collar from around his neck. A collar that the man threw against the dead man.

Then, gently, he placed his hand against the boy's back and directed him out of the apartment, out of the house, to a car that was parked under some shadowy trees. There he opened the passenger door, indicated to the boy that he was to enter. Went and took up the driver's seat.

The car stayed there until the house was in flames and they could hear the distant sound of sirens.

Then the man started the car and they drove away.

The man drove with no real destination in mind. The boy sat calmly, strangely trusting, next to him. His hands were clasped on his lap, he kept his eyes directed straight ahead. Finally the man had to ask, "Aren't you afraid of me?"

The boy turned to look at him. He shook his head, "No."

"Not too smart on your part." He caught the small smile on the boy's face. "What?"

"You have green eyes."

"So?"

"He told me about you."

The man took his eyes off the road: at this time of the night, in this part of town, there was no traffic. "Why would he do that?" he scoffed.

"When I fought him. He said that there had been another boy who had also fought him. A beautiful green-eyed boy. But that in the end, he had broken him. And he would break me."

The boy turned his gaze back to the front. The man kept silent for the remainder of the drive.

It was close to the time that her alarm usually went off when her cell phone rang. Muttering under her breath, she reached for it on her nightstand, dragged it under the blankets to her ear.

"Scully."

"Wake up, Scully."

"What... Who is..." She sat straight up in bed. "Krycek! What the hell..."

"There's a package at your door. If I were you, I'd get it before the neighbours complain."

Scully listened to the sound of a cut line as she reached for her weapon in the nightstand.

She could see nothing out of her peep hole. Took a deep breath, weapon at the ready and opened her door.

To a child, curled up, sound asleep at the foot of her door.

Maggie Scully was enjoying having her children and grandchildren around her for this Thanksgiving Saturday. So far, no major war had erupted between her children, always a sign that they were still on their best behaviour.

Charlie's and Bill Jr.'s wives were putting the final touches on the table. The "boys" were in the den, watching a football game on TV. The babies were sleeping on her bed, surrounded by pillows to keep them from rolling onto the floor. Dana was entertaining the two older ones in the living room, watching what must have been a fiftieth run through of "A Bug's Life". Dana's cell phone rang and Maggie frowned. She hoped that wasn't work interfering. But then she heard one of the babies crying on the monitor and went upstairs to see who needed attending.

Scully moved away from the television to answer her phone: the kids were reciting the dialogue along with the animated characters.

"Scully."

"What happened to the package?"

Scully's breath caught for a moment. She walked to the large picture window, pushed open the chiffon drape hanging there and looked out at the neighbourhood kids playing a game of street hockey someone had organized.

"He's doing fine." She watched as one of the kids, a boy with white blond hair, scored a goal. A boy who had revealed more than the caller would have liked. "Friends of my mother are adopting him..."

And she was speaking again into a dead phone.

An older man had come over to the kids to exchange a high five with the boy who had scored the goal: a father who then pulled his son into his arms for a tight hug before going back to watch the game from the sidewalk.

She watched and cried for the child no one had rescued.

**Author's Note:**

> January 2000


End file.
